It is said that Washington is Hollywood for ugly people. That is, of course, an insult to homely people everywhere.
But if Washington is the Hollywood of anything, then the insufferably tedious White House Correspondents’ Association dinner held every year is, truly, the Oscars of Washington.
Every spring, frumpy, ink-stained wretches squeeze themselves into ridiculously mismatched tuxedos and sequined gowns straining at the seams and — I am not kidding — walk across a plush red carpet to the snapping and flashing of cameras.
This, mere feet from the stone-walled sidewalk where President Ronald Reagan was nearly assassinated in 1981.
These people are not known for their good taste. So, every year the cavernous halls of the Hinkley Hilton are thronged with champagne-swilling reporters and producers and pundits and all their favorite Washington sources, by which I mean “Democrats.”Sure, there are some Republicans peppered in there for appearance because, after all, Washington is all about appearances. The dinner reached its apex during the Obama administration, back when Washington and Hollywood LOVED their president.
Actually, calling the White House Correspondents’ Association dinner the Oscars of Washington is an insult to Hollywood. Tinseltown has never seen such self-involved snobbery from so many superficial frauds. Saturday night’s performance was pure Washington media at its narcissistic finest.
Olivier Knox — a giant bearded crybaby who leads White House Correspondents’ Association — wrote, directed and starred in the soap opera.
“I don’t want to dwell on the president,” he began, sounding like Carly Simon. “This is not his dinner! It’s ours!” he cried. “And it should stay ours!”
All I could hear is: “You’re so vain. You probably think this song is about you.
“Don’t you? Don’t you?”
President Trump did not respond. He was busy entertaining a much, much larger audience of rabid supporters in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Sorry, but crowd size does matter in a situation like this.
Baby Knox was not finished. Actually, he was doing exactly what the political press has been doing for the past two years: He was spreading more fake news. In fact, Baby Knox DID want to dwell on the president. And, in fact, the dinner was ALL about Mr. Trump.
“In nearly 23 years as a reporter, I’ve been physically assaulted by Republicans and Democrats, spat on, shoved, had crap thrown at me,” he cried. “And there was a brief moment in Afghanistan when I thought a soldier not quite old enough to shave would shoot me dead for the crime of taking a picture inside the presidential palace.”
Not clear if this was an American soldier Baby Knox was accused of nearly murdering him, but it doesn’t really matter since it was all just a fantasy anyway.
Baby Knox took a couple of sucks off his pacifier before returning to his tattletale meltdown.
“And yet I still separate my career to before February 2017 and what came after,” he blubbered between heaves of tattle-crying. “February is when the president called us the ‘enemy of the people.’”
Waaaaaahhhhhh! Waaahhhhh!
So, let me get this straight. The great hero of our epic soap opera has routinely been physically assaulted by people in both parties in his years covering Washington. He has been spit upon and had feces thrown at him. A soldier who nearly blew his head off for snapping a picture in a war zone.
And he is crying about is somebody calling him names? Has this guy ever heard of the First Amendment? You know, the one where you can say whatever you want?
Obviously, Baby Knox’s parents never taught him the most important lesson. Sticks and stones will break my bones but words can never hurt me.
Then again, his poor parents. Can you imagine what a tattletale crybaby he must have been at home?
• Contact Charles Hurt at churt@washingtontimes.com or on Twitter @charleshurt.
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